


AU

by LittleSilverBirds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSilverBirds/pseuds/LittleSilverBirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first AU ficlet I've posted, feedback would be lovely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AU

Raised voices downstairs.   
He knows its his fault. It always is, somehow, inevitably, his fault. His parents dont care anymore, they dont even see him half the time. They dont see the things he does to himself, how much he's hurting. No one does but Dean, and even then he doesnt see it all.  
He slips out of his room, its louder out here and he can see them arguing in the hall downstairs. They wont see him go out.  
Tiptoe down the stairs quiet as he can. Sneak past them to the kitchen. Open the backdoor, shut it behind him.  
He's in the cold October air now, he can still hear them. He wants to just get away, away from here, but he cant. Its stiffling and he's suffocating.  
Then he's climbing his way up into the tree he used to sit in as a kid when things got bad, he'd watch the birds in their nest, long since abandoned over time. The tree is skeletal now, it bears no leaves and wont for many months. But it still has that unique almost platform in the centre where the branches stem out from the middle and create the canopy above.   
He remembers he used to sit there with books and games when he first learned he could climb up, with difficulty on his then short legs and arms. Now he's an awkward, lanky teenager and can just hook his arms around necessary branches and pick his way up, its no longer a gargantuan task.  
In better days his dad had offered to build him a treehouse there, but even as a child he'd seen the efficiency of the natural structure of the tree, the way the branches made their own sort of treehouse there. All he'd needed to do was rig a canvas sheet above as a sort of rain shelter for days he wanted to read to the sound of the rain beating down.  
The green of the canvas had faded over the years, the ropes frayed from their original neat twists, the eyelets rusted. Moss had grown in places, the birds had left, but the tree still stood, faithful to itself.  
He wondered to himself when this tree changed from his favourite play spot to his sanctuary from life. He's sitting in the platform, surrounded by the twisting branches above him, rain starting to patter down on the canvas. Knees hugged to his chest, he buries his face in the denim at his knees and tries to forget by remembering poems he'd read here in summer days past.  
 _This is my fall, my Autumn, my end of year._  
 _My desperate memory of Summer..._  
As Steven Slaughter recalls his memories of Summer, crow calls out above him, the branches crack together as it takes off in a fluttering of feathers and a pattering of collected water on the canvas. Then, as the voices move to the kitchen, Vernon Scannel tells of a time gone by, and scared little boys.  
 _Such skinny limbs and such a little heart_  
 _Which would have been content with one warm kiss_  
 _Had there been anyone to offer this._  
He doesnt know how long he's been sitting there, but its been a while because the cold air has gotten colder, and the rain has increased to a steady fall. And the argument has ceased, but he doesnt want to go in yet. He wonders how long it will take them to notice he's not in his room like a good kid and he's slipped outside behind their backs.  
He hears a scuffing sound of rubber soles on bark and a jacket scratching on the branches over the rain. He doesnt look up.  
He's watched seasons go past in this tree. Watched green leaves fade from their bright emerald lit by the summer light turn to fiery oranges and reds enhanced by the setting sun and fall to the ground dry and lifeless, then return again in pale buds in the spring to burst out again in emerald, mint and jade, starting the whole cycle over. Its a regularity he took comfort in, and still does.  
The scuffing draws closer, its close at his right side now. He doesnt care, he's beyond caring.   
"Cas," a familiar voice says softly, less than a foot away. Dean is perched on the edge of the branches when he looks up, waiting for permission.   
He grants him that with a small nod. He doesnt know how he knew where he'd be, maybe he came over and heard the yelling and just guessed he'd be out here. There isnt much space for two long-legged, growing boys in the tree, but that isnt a problem. Cas reaches out to Dean and suddenly realises he came out without a jacket, he's cold and the hairs on his arms are standing on end. He wonders how he managed to forget that.  
But it doesnt matter, Dean is shedding his own and motioning for him to sit up so he can help him shrug it on. Its too big, his team jacket, but its warm and it smells like Dean, its comforting. Dean is settling down beside Castiel as he tugs the warm jacket closer around him, theres not much room but he squeezes in between Castiel and a thick branch that shields them from view of the house, wrapping one strong arm around his shoulders and holding him close to his warmth.  
Their legs tangle as Dean curls himself around Cas and Cas lets him, because Dean is safe and warm and knows him like Castiel knows Ode to a Nightingale, like the back of his hand.  
Castiel doesnt need to hide from Dean, so he knows as he lets his head fall to Deans chest that he doesnt need to pretend he's fine, and he can let the single tear fall from the corner of his eye silently down his face. Because he cant not let it, it comes of its own accord and Deans thumb comes up to brush it away. He's grateful.  
Its dark, and the christmas lights they strung up last year for fun cast a multicoloured glow on their faces. So Cas doesnt protest when Deans head comes to rest on his own, lips pressing a tender kiss into his hair.  
The rain still smacks on the canvas roof over their heads, a few droplets run down the branches by their heads. The lights of the house far down the garden are dull in contrast to their assortment of christmas lights wound round the branches, attached to a small solar battery and lighting their little sanctuary.  
Cas see's their initials in the bark across from them, carved when they were ten. _DW CG_. Now, five years later on a rainy night in October, they have a different meaning. When they were ten it was a moment of genius, madness even. _Hey why dont we cut our initials into the tree? Yeah lets do it!_ And now, it means something more.  
Eventually Castiels parents would call him in, yell at him for not telling them where he went, just go to his room. He'd ask Dean to stay because he doesnt want to be alone tonight.   
Dean would call his mother, ask if thats okay, and she'd say yes because she understands. They'd get something to eat, they'd sit down with a movie or something and since its the weekend they'd stay up late in each others company because Dean means safe.  
And if Castiels parents start yelling again Dean would be there, he'd take Cas into his arms and tell him he's okay because thats what he does.


End file.
